


Vampires Suck (A 4+1 Story)

by Alice_Rider



Series: Vampire au! [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Gay Panic, Human/Vampire Relationship, Lance (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), Vampire Bites
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_Rider/pseuds/Alice_Rider
Summary: The 4 times Keith almost bit Lance, and the one time that Lance actually mans up enough for the story to move forward(Rated M for future blood/fighting/etc.)
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Vampire au! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1012875
Comments: 29
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

Lance is always hyper aware of where Keith is now. He’s not sure when he started keeping such close tabs on his teammate (his best guess is some time after the Kitchen Incident™ some two odd movements ago) but now the habit’s ingrained in his subconscious and he can’t make it stop. Any time Keith walks into a room, all of Lance’s focus flies right out the airlock. And that is seriously starting to become a problem.

It’s not even like Lance is scared of Keith, because he’s not. Really and truly. Literal lack of humanity aside, Keith is a paladin of Voltron. They’ve learned to mind-meld, to let each other in in the most literal and frightening of ways, to fight this unrelenting war so the universe could finally be at peace. He’s seen the inside of this guy’s head, and as much as Keith likes to pretend that he’s completely stone-faced and emotionless, Lance knows all these weird little factoids about him, like how his favorite color is purple, and his favorite food is whatever Hunk makes for dinner, and that he slept with a teddy bear until he was like 12, and that just breaks the bad boy persona so effectively that Lance can’t see him as anything but Keith. Lance knows Keith. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

Well, there is still the lingering fear that somehow mullets are contagious, but that’s besides the point.

The point is that Lance needs to focus on anything but Keith right now. Pidge has tasked Lance with the sacred duty of beta testing her gaming console that she’s built out of spare parts of the Castle, and Hunk is counting on his feedback for the storyline of the game he’s programmed. Lance has a lot of responsibility on his shoulders, and Lance McClain does not go back on promises dammit.

Except that Keith, for reasons yet unknown, has decided to park himself on the far end of the couch Lance has sprawled out in the common area, scrolling away on his tablet like he doesn’t know there’s at least four other perfectly empty couches at less distracting distances available. Honestly. Lance could probably touch his leg if he stretched his foot out far enough. It really wouldn’t take too much effort. Is it far enough that Lance could make it look like an accident if he did it? Or is Keith really too engrossed in whatever he’s reading to notice?

Game Over!

Shit. Focus, McClain.

Lance growls under his breath, smashes the continue button with maybe a little too much conviction, and relaunches his endeavor to save the princess and defeat this wannabe denizen of the deep.

The mechanics of the game aren’t rocket science: jump, block, dodge, attack, rinse and repeat. Pretty par the course for the “Save the World and Get the Girl” type of games Hunk’s so fond of, and Lance is a master at the ancient practice of Button Mashing. He can’t combo worth a damn, Pidge will be the first to point that out, but he’s saved many a damsel with this tried and true practice, so he’s standing by it. He’s made it this far without being able to combo; it’s definitely all that he needs to take down the boss and get the girl.

Keith clears his throat, a distracted sort of sound that doesn’t break his concentration from his reading.

Game Over!

Low-quality blood spatter reds out the screen. The game asks “Continue?” in big, bold letters like it’s mocking him. Lance has half a mind to chuck the whole thing across the room and be done with it, but the other, smarter half warns of the vengeance Pidge would bring down on him if anything were to happen to the project she’s spent the better part of a phoeb on.

Lance takes a deep breath and hits continue.

For a solid 78 seconds, Lance zones in on the game. HIs fingers furiously click away at buttons. HIs character moves across the battlefield in smooth, fluid motions, and the boss’s health bar drops. He’s got this. He’s got this. He’s got this.

Keith shifts on his end of the couch, draws his legs up to tuck them under him. He barely brushes Lance’s foot in the process, but the jolt that shoots through him makes him drop the console like he’s been burned.

It lands unceremoniously on his face and smashes his poor nose in the process. 

Game Over!

Anger curls his hands into fists, but it’s the shame that keeps them from lashing out. Frustration bades him to throw the stupid thing against the wall just to get the satisfation of watching it shatter, but it’s fear of Pidge’s retaliation that makes him think twice about it. Common sense says that he should just move to another couch, or the kitchen, or his room, anywhere Keith is not, but it’s his stubborn pride that roots him in place. There are several working theories on why Keith is suddenly not put off by Lance’s very presence like he has been for the last several years before his secret slipped; none are confirmed at this time. All Lance knows is that Keith declared war when he took the seat at the end of the couch, and Lance won’t lose twice in the same day.

So he settles for removing the offending device from his face with one hand, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with the other, and letting out a groan that rattles deep in his bones and soothes the edges of his frayed nerves.

“You suck at video games,” comes the bemused retort from across the couch; it jabs Lance right between the ribs and sets his blood boiling before he can even process the whole incident.

Lance’s first reaction is to shoot up and yell back “What do you know about video games, Mullet?” but that’s not going to win him any standing ground in this argument; not when Lance can hear the coy smirk that plastered all over Keith’s face. So he doesn’t. Lance calmly, cooly, with a steadiness that somehow doesn’t betray the shaking in his bones or the fire lit deep in his very being that aches to rage and burn, props himself up on his elbows like a gentleman and tosses the game onto Keith’s lap. “If you’re so good, then why don’t you beat the boss?”

That one physically sets Keith back a few seconds; his tablet almost falls from his hands when the game console lands in his lap and Lance can practically see the gears behind his eyes working double to process what just happened. Lance shoots him a wicked grin.

But Keith’s hesitation only lasts the space between a few ticks, and that shit eating grin of his is back as he leans just a little closer, invades Lance’s space with an alarming sense of familiarity, toothy smirk and eyes glowing bright. “Give up already?”

Lance has a million and one comebacks for that. Lance may not be good at video games, but he knows he’s good at this, this stupid back and forth that he and Keith have, and dammit all if he isn’t going to get the last word today.

But those golden eyes are throwing him off his game. There’s a dam full to bursting with every word that could win Lance this fight, but he can’t seem to find the will to summon them with that glowing stare fixed on him like a spot light.

He can’t let Keith win this. He can’t. He’s never going to live this down if he does. He’s got to say something. He had something for this!

”Does it hurt?” is what comes to the surface instead.

Lance is burning, and not in a good way either. He can feel the heat his cheeks are giving off as his skin flushes from his collar bones to the tips of his ears.

Mission failure. Abort! Abort! Abort!

But his legs won’t seem to listen to his gut telling him to get the hell outta Dodge. Keith is tilting his head, golden eyes dimming along with his triumphant smile as his eyebrows furrow with confusion. And Lance. Can’t. Move.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything. Nope. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lance’s mouth is in fast forward, tongue tripping over a flurry of words that it could never hope to keep up with, but his limbs haven’t quite caught up with the program and they’re still trying and failing to jerk to life in a totally conspicuous attempt to evacuate the immediate vicinity. “You must be hearing things,” comes out a squawk, and “Oh my God, just kill me now,” is about two octaves higher than intended; there was definitely more reeling to be had, but a hand catches his wrist and stops his panicked escape mid-flight.

“Lance.” Keith is . . . sincere? Stern? Lance doesn’t have a name for the tone of his voice or the steadiness in his gaze, but whatever it is, it stops the frantic rushing of Lance’s blood and halts the word vomit in its tracks. “What do you mean? Does what hurt?”

Lance sighs, readjusts on the couch so he’s sitting upright, but he can’t exactly look Keith in the face for this. “Does --does it hurt when . . . when you bite someone?”

Keith stills next to him. Lance spares a fleeting glance in his direction, just enough to make out the surprise dusting Keith’s cheeks a pale pink. “I, uh, I don’t think so? I don’t bite hard, I mean. And Shiro’s never said anything about it.”

“Oh,” is all Lance can manage with his heart in his throat.

“Why?”

“I. Well I was. Heh. I was wondering,” God today really isn’t his day, is it? There is a part of Lance that is still in utter disbelief that he’s even considering saying any of this aloud and is simultaneously and vehemently against it, and there’s a more hopeful part that’s convinced this is another one of those dreams that ends up with him gasping in bed, heart in his throat and fire in his veins. Lance isn’t sure which one of those is better. “I mean, I know Shiro is the only other one that knows. And I would think that it’s rough. With only one person to depend on, I mean. B-but I can’t stand the sight of-- and well, I was maybe thinking--”

“Are you offering to help me feed?”

Lance’s face flushes a whole new violent shade of red, but when his gawk is only met with determined sincerity, he has to hide his face in his hands. “Well not if you put it like that!”

Keith sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight. “Lance.”

“Fine! Yes! I’m offering to help your moody, broody, mullet-y vampire ass not die! Happy?”

When Lance crosses his arms over his chest with a huff, one side of Keith’s mouth lilts up, but there’s no malice behind it. “I don’t think ‘mullet-y’ is a word.”

“Gah! You’re impossible! You’re incorrigible! You’re-- you’re--” Lance could probably list another 20 or so light-hearted insults, but Keith thought that now was the best time to turn the yellow eyes back on and, whoops, Lance’s brain halts with a jarring finality. They glow, Keith’s eyes, and the yellow seems to almost swim with a mixture of amusement and something else, something Lance isn’t really sure he wants to put a name to, so he gives up in his search for words and settles with a sound that has some semblance to a groan. Lance moves to storm off the couch, a flailing of limbs that doesn’t so much lift him as launch him forward, but he’s only managed to find his balance on his feet when a hand on the back of his jacket drags him back to the cough. “What?”

It’s Keith’s turn to keep his gaze on anything but Lance, and Lance can’t tell if the tips of Keith’s ears were always that red or if he’s missing something here. “I could show you.” He gulps audibly. “What it feels like. If you want.”

What?

Oh?

Oh.

Lance blanches. Keith definitely turns a few shades redder.

The silence that settles between them is stuffy, suffocating. Deafening. Lance hasn’t asked about the finer points of the supernatural, so the jury’s still out on whether or not Keith’s hearing is really as good as Hollywood and Stephanie Meyers made it out to be, but there’s no way Keith can’t hear Lance’s heart trying to break ribs. It’s the only thing to focus on, but the silence seems to swallow the sound like it did the sound of Lance’s shallow breathing. Do something McClain. Be a man. Say something. Anything!

“Thanks?”

God, maybe he should smash Pidge’s damn console to pieces. Nothing she could do could be worse than this.

Lance’s voice lifts the chokehold the silence had on the room; at least Keith is looking at him now, shooting Lance this look like he’s not quite sure he heard right.

Lance sticks his wrist out and turns away with a pout before Keith can say anything and scrunches his eyes closed.

It takes a moment, an unlimitedly stretched instant in time in which Lance forgets how to breathe, before there’s a low chuckle from behind.

Keith’s fingers are so cold, frigid when they wrap around his arm to steady him, and a trail of goosebumps follow the steady movement of a hand pushing the sleeve of his jacket up his arm. Lance has to fight to keep still as lightning shoots down his spine.

But the breath that puffs against his skin is warm. Impossibly so. The heat sinks into his skin, into his blood, melts him from the inside, burns where Keith’s skin meets his own.

Lance steals a glance; just one quick little peek through his lashes.

Keith has a solid grip on his arm, steady enough to keep Lance from flinching, but light enough not to bruise. He’s not looking at Lance, a small miracle, but those yellow eyes are trained on the little blue vein that runs just under the surface of his wrist. Lance can make out the wet gleam of fangs barely hidden behind parted lips where little panting huffs slide out to seep into his skin.

Keith opens his mouth wide. Lance can’t turn away.

“Nope!” Lance yanks his hand so hard he tumbles backwards onto the couch, cradling his wrist to his chest like he’s been wounded. Keith’s teeth didn’t even manage to scrape him but somehow Lance feels like he’s on fire. “Nope. Sorry. Can’t. I can’t. I don’t like needles and if I see red I’m going to throw up and-- “

Keith, yellow stare hazy, dream-like, plants a far off look on Lance while he rambles, tilts his head to the side like he’s looking through Lance, not at him.

Lance really needs to mount some kind of defense against those eyes. He can feel the weight of them sitting square in the middle of his chest, a two ton burden that restricts the pounding of his heart. Where does he even begin with that though? How is he supposed to train himself to resist something that he’s pretty sure is specifically designed to enrapture prey? 

Is that what he is now? Prey?

God, is this how it ends? Not with Zarkon and a blaze of glory, but in the common area with his heart in his throat and his stomach in knots?

Is he still talking?

All of Lance’s babble is whizzing right past Keith. The glow of his eyes is muted, distant, as he tilts his head to the side a little more; Lance stutters on his own tongue at the length of neck that’s been exposed, but his voice breaking through another few octaves doesn’t stop his mouth.

Keith leans forward, seemingly ignores that startles shriek Lance gives when hands land on either side of his hips, and, oh God, is he--

Yup. Keith is 100% crawling forward, onto Lance’s lap as he tries and fails to scramble backwards, sliding close enough that the fabric of his shirt catches on Lance’s jacket zipper, and plants a hand by Lance’s head, stopping Lance’s runaway mouth and galloping heart in one fell swoop, while the other moves to Lance’s chin, tilts it upward with a strength that Lance can’t fight.

Oh God.

Keith nuzzles into the crook of Lance’s neck, lets his nose run a long line from the base of Lance’s throat to the underside of his jaw. Lance tries twice to swallow, but the warm breath leaving feather light touches against his throat is igniting sparks under the surface of his skin and there is not enough spare brain power to focus on not spontaneously combusting and to remember the finer points of human mechanics.

“Don’t move,” Keith whispers against the hollow of his throat, and Lance honest to God doesn't whimper, “I won’t hurt you.”

Lance’s fingers tighten around the hem of Keith’s shirt and pull, but he couldn’t tell you when they’d gotten there or what their end goal was.

Oh God, Keith is going to bite him.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh God.

“Hey Lance, have you beat that-- oh God!”

Lance’s reaction is knee jerk; as in, his knee jerks up and lands squarely between Keith’s legs. Keith falls forward with a hiss and a curse growled under his breath, one hand flying down to protect his wounded pride from Lance; Lance, who’s still flailing long limbs as far as they’ll reach, topples off the couch and ass first onto the floor.

“I can explain!” are the first words out of his mouth.

Taking into account that Hunk has slapped a hand over his eyes and is the same shade of red that Lance feels like, Lance cannot, in fact, explain. Lance isn’t even sure where to start; not that something as inconsequential as a halfway believable story or the poker face to deliver it has ever stopped him before.

“Uh,” Hunk takes his hand off his face, but he still can’t manage to look at Lance-- or Keith, who’s still groaning in the fetal position on the couch behind him-- dead on. So he averts his gaze to the floor and scratches the back of his head. “I only came to see about the game,” a nervous cough into his fist, “but I didn’t realize that you were,um,” he clears his throat, “busy.”

“What!” Lance doesn’t mean to shriek, but that little implication is an arrow straight through the heart because Hunk can’t know. About any of it. About the vampirism or the blood or the fact that Lance isn’t entirely sure where he stands now with Keith because feelings. “No!” Lance is shaking down to his very core. He knows he’s been caught. Hunk knows he’s been caught. He knows Hunk knows he’s been caught. Dammit, he wasn’t ready for any of this yet! “God no! Are you crazy? We’re not-- I mean, we weren’t-- that wasn’t anything! Nope! Nada! What on earth ever gave you that idea?” His voice breaks and cracks the whole time, and it’s quite possible he’s ascended into pitches only dolphins and bats could hear.

Hunk just stares, eyes jumping from Lance to Keith to the console that’s been long discarded on the far side of the couch and back; at the very least, Hunk is as bad at hiding his emotions as Lance is at lying. “Ah,” he finally says, not sounding the least bit convinced, “yeah, I’m just gonna. . . leave you guys to whatever. I’ll talk to you later about the game.” And he’s gone, face red and voice uneven, and hopefully not straight to Pidge.

God. Pidge. Lance would sooner throw himself into the vacuum of space than deal with her torment.

Behind him, Keith grunts as he straightens out on the couch, but he’s gone too before Lance can get another word out, hands clenched and stiff at his sides as he marches from the common area. He doesn’t spare another glance Lance’s way, and somehow, the hiss of the door closing behind him seems absolute in a weird, fucked up kind of way that makes Lance’s stomach and heart sink to his gut.

Perfect. Good job, McClain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter isn't really all I wanted it to be in places, but I've stared at it long enough and my brain feels fried. So hopefully it makes sense. Let me know if it doesn't

Keith will not talk to Lance.

He won’t even look at him. Not that he’s letting Lance within 10 feet of him at this point anyway. 

And Hunk isn’t necessarily looking at him funny, but like

He’s looking at him funny.

Hunk’s probably kept his mouth shut about the whole incident though (Lance didn’t even have to beg, which is good, great even, because Lance is still on the boat that is adamantly denying any and all romantic involvement with Keith; but it’s also scary because Hunk loves gossip. Hunk lives for gossip. And if there’s a nice, juicy story that’s being kept under lock and key without any amount of coercion, bribery, or pitiful imploring, it can only mean 1 of 3 things: either A) Hunk doesn’t know what to do with it, B) he’s planning on hanging onto it in return for a “favor” down the road, or C) he’s just as confused about the whole ordeal as Lance is. Somehow, this doesn’t make Lance feel any better.) considering there is no force in the known universe that could stop Pidge from ragging on Lance, especially with the amount of ammo she’d glean from that one little incident, and there’s been a phenomenal lack of roasting, light-hearted jabs, or the below-the-belt blows that Pidge is so fond of lately. So thank God for little miracles.

Not that they’re doing anything for his sour mood. It’s bad movie night, and Coran has fished up what seems like the absolute shittiest documentary the Altean race had to offer out from one of the closed off Castle rooms, complete with special effects that couldn’t hold a candle to Earth movies circa 1982. It’s praise-worthy in all its sub-par glory, and Hunk and Pidge are on the other end of the couch disguising blasphemous slander as fervent admiration, (Hunk, Lance, and Pidge started this tradition back on Earth, when the Pidge hacked into the Garrison wi-fi and downloaded a bunch of movies on her illegal laptop, and Hunk and Lance would sneak from their bunks in the middle of the night to watch them together. It’s their absolute favorite pastime, now with bonus points awarded to those that can make Shiro pull a face like he’s died a little on the inside.) but Coran, sweet, innocent Coran, is still a bit fuzzy on the finer points of human sarcasm and is wholeheartedly agreeing with everything Pidge and Hunk point out, leaving Allura to sneak extra portions of popcorn from the bowl sitting forgotten in Coran’s lap; Lance is slouched deep enough in his seat to disappear, picking at a loose stitch in his jacket with growing agitation, doing his best to feign interest in. . . whatever freaky alien species this documentary is droning on about,-- Xavoids? Xyvoids? Xyvaids? Xy-whatever-- but he keeps finding his attention flicking to the empty spot on the couch where Keith is supposed to be, and dammit all if that doesn’t sting in all the wrong ways.

But even that in and of itself is making Lance nauseous. He shouldn’t care that Keith is ditching movie night. Nobody else is questioning it. Why should Lance care? He doesn’t care.

Except he does. He really, really does and that makes him more sick than anything else. For all the time that Lance has spent in space doing crazy, amazing, impossible things like piloting magical space robo-cats through galaxies never before seen on Earth to fight a war with giant purple koalas to save a bunch of unbelievable alien races and planets, or being dubbed “Defender of the Universe” by adoring crowds after Iverson said he’d never amount to anything more than a glorified cargo pilot, hitting on more gorgeous alien chicks (granted, none of them ever flirt back, but Loverboy Lance lives to please) than he could ever hope to count, Lance thought that there was nothing new the universe could throw at him. But the warm fuzzies? Over Keith?? This is new, frightening territory.

Lance sinks a little further down into the cushions, snaps at the loose thread until it finally breaks, and resigns to glaring at the screen with a huff and his arms crossed over his chest.

There’s a gentle tap on his shoulder, a subtle movement meant to catch his attention and nothing more, but Lance almost bolts out of his seat like he’s been caught red-handed, which is ridiculous because he hasn’t done anything; Shiro must’ve circled behind him while Lance was busy moping, and it’s not doing Lance’s frayed nerves any favors that Shiro’s got that look on his face as he motions for Lance to follow him, offering a cheap “Come help me get more popcorn,” for anyone paying too much attention to them. 

To give Shiro some credit, he waits until they’re all the way in the kitchen, after he pops the current substitute for popcorn (a bittersweet fruit that he can’t pronounce the name of from a planet whose name was so startlingly simple that it’s hard to remember) into the Altean equivalent of a microwave (it looks like a microwave, but according to Hunk, it doesn’t emit actual microwaves, which makes Lance think it’s probably some form of engine radiation, but that’s neither here nor there) before he turns on Lance with that same Dad Look™ that makes Lance want to shrivel up and die.

“Lance, what’s going on?”

Shiro’s straight to the point as ever, doesn’t leave any room for Lance to squirm his way out of this one, but talking to big-brother/lifetime-hero Shiro is exactly the opposite of what Lance had planned for today. 

==> Play dumb, Lance.

“Who’s Lance?”

Not that dumb!

It’s kind of funny how Shiro pinches his nose and scrunches his face when he’s frustrated in the sense that he looks a lot like Keith when he does it; Lance vaguely wonders who got the habit from who. “Lance, I know I missed something here. You’re acting weird, and Hunk’s acting weird, and Keith’s acting weirder than normal, and I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone.” It’s a lot less funny how quickly Lance’s resolve to not spill his guts all over the floor buckles when Shiro looks at him dead on, arms crossed and shoulders squared; Lance doesn’t know that he’s ever noticed just how heavy the bags under Shiro’s eyes have been lately. “It’s been 2 movements since Keith’s come to me for help. He never stretches it out like this and I’m starting to worry. He’s my little brother, but you’re all my family in this. I don’t want anyone ending up hurt. Please, tell me what’s going on.”

It’s always a strange phenomena when Lance can’t find the words, akin to Pidge going to bed on time and getting a full night’s sleep, or when Hunk makes something not even a rock monster would deign to eat; there’s a million and one things he wants to tell Shiro and get off his chest, he’s just not sure how. Indecision sits like a hard lump in this throat; it’s only when Shiro gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze that Lance can summon the courage to speak past it. “I messed up.”

Shiro waits, mouth pressed in a hard line, expectant gaze surprisingly easy to meet.

Lance takes a deep breath, tries to swallow the lump in his throat, and leans back against the counter. It’s the same counter Keith pinned him against the night of The Incident, and that just serves to fan the flame of guilt just a little brighter.

“I messed up. Royally. I kind of. . . offered to help Keith with, well, you know. But then I freaked out and tried to back out but Keith was acting all weird and doing that thing that makes his eyes all stupid glowy and he fell on me and then Hunk walked in--”

Shiro is deadly serious in seconds. “Does Hunk know?”

“What? No! He,” Lance points his gaze firmly at the floor, one hand at the back of his neck, “he thought we were making out.”

Shiro snickers at that, but it morphs into a cough when Lance glares at him. Shiro clears his throat twice before he schools his expression back to neutrality. “What’s so wrong about that?”

God, if Lance hadn’t been asking himself the same thing for the last 3 movements. “It,” he knows the answer: it’s so incredibly simple, almost horrifyingly so, “it isn’t.” But now that he’s finally said it aloud, he almost feels like he can breathe again. And that’s. . . weird. In a good way. “But I panicked, and you know I can’t stop running my mouth and saying stupid shit when I panic, so I ended up denying the whole thing with Keith right there literally seconds after I kicked him in the balls on accident, and now Hunk thinks he saw us swapping spit on the couch and he’s being friggin’ weird about it, and I’m like 87% sure Keith is pissed at me; well, I’m like 100% sure he’s pissed but I’m not--”

“Lance.”

“I don’t know what to do! There’s just too much and I don’t know what to do with any of it! I’m confused and scared it won’t last and even more scared it was never really there in the first place, and I’m scared to dive head first into something I know nothing about and can’t even be sure is real!”

Wow. That was a lot to unpack in one go. Maybe too much.

The kitchen is eerily quiet after that, and now Lance can do nothing more than sit in the echo of that little outburst and stew under the carefully blank face of Shiro that makes him want to do nothing more than fold in on himself until he’s nothing more than a singularity.

It’s a long moment before Shiro speaks, and when he does, there is a fleeting pause to his words, as if he’s measured them to the last syllable. “Well, if you want to know what I think,” he takes two steps towards Lance, heavy on the tile below them, and places a gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder, “I think it’s fine to be scared of the new and unexpected. Fear is what often keeps us alive. But bravery in the face of fear is what gives the life you’re granted quality.” A heavier pause where Shiro leans back into the counter next to Lance. “And I think you know the answer to all your questions already.”

Lance without words is becoming a startling norm nowadays. He’s not sure which is better, the rambling or the silence.

As if on cue, the Altean microwave hums and dings. Shiro extracts their freshly made quasi-popcorn and walks out of the kitchen, throwing an all too casual, “I think Keith in in his lion,” over his shoulder before he disappears down the hallway.

+-----------------------------------------------------+

Lance shuffles his weight from one foot to the other with a nervous bounce; his fingers won’t leave the zipper of his jacket alone, no matter how many times he tries to corral them into complacency. Keith is definitely in his lion: the hatch is open, the ramp is down, and there’s a muted rustle that meanders its way to Lance from the hull at uneven intervals. The talk with Shiro has left Lance lighter, like the uncomfortable twist in his gut he’s been trying to ignore for the last phoeb has finally begun to unwind, but for all the faux bravado Lance managed to muster up on his way to the hangar, it dissipated before Lance could actually do anything with it.

Lance takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, stamps his foot for good measure. Be brave in the face of fear. If you can fight purple koalas hell bent on destroying the universe a trillion and a half parsecs from home, you can talk to a boy. It’s not that hard.

Except climbing the catwalk into the dim darkness of Red’s hull sends his pulse racing and his heart into his throat. Every step seems heavy against the metal walkway. Can Keith hear him coming? Surely he must.

Red’s hull is mercifully empty when Lance pokes his head through the opening, and he lets out a breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. There’s a light filtering in from just above, from the cockpit door hanging ajar; there’s a rustle, a hard thump. . . and muted cursing. It draws a low chuckle from Lance, makes the nerve-wracking, hand-wringing, albeit rather short climb up the ladder seem a whole lot less catastrophically world-ending.

The door swings the rest of the way open without sound and with very little resistance, and Lance is greeted by the sight of Keith hunched over on his knees as he finagles with something under the control panel, muttering under his breath. His hips wiggle as he reaches for something further in, presumably some wire, and Lance has to turn his head away and shield his eyes with his hand. Does he not know that Lance is here? Aren’t vampires supposed to have like, supersonic hearing or something, or is that yet another lie Stephanie Meyers imposed on a young, impressionable Lance?

(Lance should probably stop taking advice from a middle aged woman who wrote some lifeless yet somewhat troubling characters back when Lance was 12 and ask the real deal how the supernatural perks actually work, but that’s an entirely different uncomfortable conversation and Lance is tapped out of those for the quintant. Probably for the rest of the deca-phoeb.)

Lance sneaks a peek through his fingers. Keith wiggles his hips again and Lance has to cover his mouth to stop from making a noise. Nope. He does not know Lance is here. Lance turns away again before he does something stupid. Like slap Keith in the ass. In a strictly joking, no-homo kinda way, of course. But given the circumstances, Lance gets this creeping feeling that wouldn’t end in his favor.

In retrospect, working out a rough draft of what he should say before he landed on Keith’s doorstep would have been useful in the “stopping Lance’s runaway mouth” and “stating a case that is both apologetic and reasonably explanatory” departments. But hindsight’s 20/20 and karma’s a bitch. Lance can only hope now that he’s half as good at winging it as he is at button mashing. Keith’s not one to play games though; he might even kick Lance out before he can get his point through, and welp, Lance could count that yet another unsteady, uncertain friendship gone to waste because of his big mouth.

This “be brave in the face of danger” schtick is going to bite him in the ass one quintant. Probably in a few ticks, if we’re being honest here.

“Yeah, yeah, I know already,” comes the exhausted, exasperated retort from under the control panel.

Lance freezes in place, “You-- you do?”

And that’s when the back of Keith’s head meets a metal bit with a resounding clunk and he’s curling into a ball on the floor in a flurry of colorful expletives, hands clasped tight at the back of his head; Lance is on the floor next to him without a second thought, worried hands hovering.

Kieth regains enough composure to clear himself of the control panel on his knees, and now that Lance isn’t mercilessly squashing every stray maybe-not-so-straight thought before it can take root, it’s easier to admit to himself that the discombobulated look on Keith’s face is actually kind of adorable and Lance would be dying of laughter if he wasn’t here on a mission; though the smile he quirks is automatic and unintentional. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ouch. The bewilderment melts into frustration quicker than Lance can follow, and the bite in Keith’s tone is enough to make Lance flinch.

“Wait,” damn. Keith isn’t even using his glowy eye trick and Lance’s tongue is already heavy; it’s probably all well and good that Lance didn’t bother with preparing a speech beforehand, considering his brain’s gone fuzzy with a nice mix of guilt and anxiety. “You didn’t know I was here?” Embarrassment flushes Keith’s anger away as quickly as it paints his face red all the way to the tips of his ears; Lance focuses on that rather than the fact that he’s stalling. “But you were talking?”

And there’s the anger again, knitting Keith’s eyebrows together and screwing his mouth into a tight line, but its biting edge is dulled by the color in his cheeks still, and makes him fumble in his attempt to shove his way out of the room.

“No wait!” Lance panics and jolts forward, snagging Keith around the legs and sending him toppling to the floor. It’s too quick a movement for Keith to brace his fall, so there’s a nice, round, much redder spot in the middle of Keith’s forehead when he turns on Lance with a few thousand daggers glared in his direction, golden eyes and all. Lance has the decency to look apologetic as he straightens up. “Oops.”

“What,” the audible punch in Keith’s voice is back, but it’s more flustered annoyance than outright anger, “do you want?”

“I just.” It takes Keith a couple seconds to right himself on the floor, but Lance’s heart has suddenly decided to take a visit up his windpipe and he can’t breathe. He can’t speak. His pulse is soaring through him enough to paralyze him.

Be brave in the face of the unknown.

Keith sits cross legged in front of him, and his eyes dim until they’re their normal shade of gray.

Lance gulps.

“I just wanted to apologize.”

Oh. Lance can see Keith’s eyebrow quick up under his messy bangs at that, but his expression doesn’t betray more than that.

“I know I kind of over-reacted. With the whole Hunk situation, I mean. I just got scared because I didn’t want your secret to get out, and I’ve been going through some personal stuff recently, and it’s been difficult trying to process everything going on in my head, you being a vampire, being in what is essentially the middle of nowhere so far from my family, and my mouth has a mind of its own when I’m backed into a corner and it says things that I can’t control. And I’m not trying to make up excuses for it. I just wanted to explain. And to say I’m sorry. Because I am. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” It’s easy, almost second nature, to reach across the short distance between them to aim a playful shove at Keith’s shoulder, much to Lance’s shock. “You’re my friend. And I don’t like upsetting my friends.”

Kieth’s expression softens slowly, as slowly and quietly as the small smile that tweaks the corner of his mouth up. “Yeah, yeah. I forgive you.” 

And for the first time, Lance’s stomach flips in a good way, and he’s so full to bursting with abrupt energy that he has to do something with it. So he does. He surges forward and traps Keith in an awkward hug. Lance can hear the breath he’s just hugged out of the guy escaping his lungs in a whoosh, and he almost feels bad for it, but Keith just let’s out a strained chuckle and, bit by bit, raises his arms to rest around Lance’s back.

It takes 5 full ticks to ruin the moment, and to give Lance some credit, it wasn’t his fault this time.

Keith’s stomach rumbles loudly between them and that sets them both scrambling backward, with a sense of rushed urgency that leaves them more tangled than before. There’s a whole new shade of red creeping up Keith’s skin as he flounders for a way out, tripping on sorry’s between curses; Lance would probably feel more at liberty to poke fun at Keith, just to dispel some of the tension, if it hadn’t been for Shiro telling him that Keith’s stretched things out farther than he’s ever done before, and that it’s a matter of genuine concern; so Lance takes the higher road and changes the subject instead. “So who were you talking to?”

It’s an innocent question out of the blue, and maybe that’s what halts Keith’s desperate fumbling, “What?”

“Earlier, when I walked in, you were talking to someone. Who?”

Despite the color cooling off in his face, Keith can’t meet Lance’s gaze, “Oh. I was talking to Red.”

“About what? Almost sounded like you were on the receiving end of one of Shiro’s “I’m disappointed in you” spiels.”

Kieth coughs into his hand, and if Lance didn’t know any better, he’d think Keith was trying to hide behind it. “Nothing really. Red’s just being overprotective like always. Nothing new.”

Lance wants to press the matter but Keith’s stomach rumbles again, louder this time, and Keith turns away, mumbling, “Sorry. It’s been a little while.”

Keith isn’t asking for help, and Lance doesn’t know how to take that. Lance isn’t even sure Keith would accept it if Lance offered, given that it’s Lance’s last offer of “help” that landed all of them in a week’s worth of silence and weird side glances. But it’s hard to sit there and let a friend suffer when all Lance would have to do is summon a bit of moxie and bite the bullet. So before this current surge of bravery circles the drain, Lance pushes his sleeve up with an unnerving sense of calm he didn’t even know he could manage and offers his wrist. “Do you want help?”

It’s kind of endearing how easy it seems to get Keith to blush. There’s a vague impulse to press his luck, to see how red Keith can get, but he also doesn’t want to make Keith angry enough to leave; Keith opens his mouth, clicks it shut in the same movement, rinses and repeats until he chokes out a stuttered, “Are you sure?”

Lance holds his wrist a little higher, tightens his fingers into a fist in an attempt to hide how they shake. “It’s the least I can do.”

Keith pauses, glances at Lance’s offer of a meal with narrowed eyes for just a moment before he wraps cold fingers around Lance’s arm to pull him closer.

Lance turns his head and shuts his eyes with purpose. He may have made great strides in personal development here, but he’s still a wuss when it comes to blood, and if he looks he’s either going to chicken out again or puke.

Keith’s breath is warm as it slides over his skin. Lance can feel the flush of blood surge up, but hopefully Keith is too preoccupied to notice.

Keith’s fingers tighten; Lance hears him take a breath.

It takes Lance way too long to figure out that the red lights flashing behind his eyelids are actually from the warning system above, that the ringing in his ears is actually the alarm blaring over Allura’s voice yelling, “Paladins, we’re under attack!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you to everyone for such lovely comments and all the kudos! You guys don't know how happy I get when I get notifications that other people besides just me actually like my story. Thank you!
> 
> Secondly, sorry for the delay in posting. I spilled a drink onto my keyboard last week and had to wait for a replacement. And then Animal Crossing happened. So......
> 
> Third? Thirdly? Is that a word? Anyways. The second half of this chapter is a bit. . . dark. For my standards anyways. It's part of the reason this fic is rated M. Fair warning.

It’s late.

Not that “late” means anything when there is no star to rise and set on a horizon to count the days and keep Lance’s circadian rhythm in check as they drift through empty space. These days (Well, quintants really. The Earthlings were either left out or forgotten when the universe-wide memo on appropriate names for time slices went out however many thousand years ago; Lance is trying to assimilate, if nothing more than to keep reminders of home to a minimum when the war effort demanded all his waking focus), all “late” means is that the Castle lights have been dimmed, the others have turned in to rest, and they’ll all gather for their “morning” briefing on the bridge after a set amount of vargas.

The earlier battle’s thrown everyone off; the Castle's been floating on the outer reaches of different solar systems in between missions and diplomatic operations to try and decrease the odds of such run-ins and prevent them from spending unnecessary energy, and though against nothing more than a few lightly-manned Galra cruisers that ended with a scraped knee as Team Voltron’s worst casualty, the stand-off was longer than it had any right to be, and everyone retreated to their bunks shortly after, complaining of aches and pains as they trudged away. 

Lance is too tired to sleep; he’s been drifting somewhere in the planes between slumber and consciousness ever since his head hit the pillow; it’s not like before, the insomnia, the raging fire that threatened to burn through him when he was resolute on burying the parts of him that he didn’t understand. This is simply existing in the in-between, unable to land on firmer soil.

There’s a faint noise that bores through the veil of his flitting awareness, but the torpor clouds his senses, implores him to ignore it, tries to drag him back into that middle ground, when the noise interrupts the quiet of his room again, louder, more persistent this time.

Finding Keith on the other side of his door, shuffling back and forth with an uneasy birr in the hall, clutching his pillow to his chest for dear life, is not what Lance expected, but it’s not the strangest thing to show up on Lance’s doorstep in the dead of night. It takes every ounce of energy Lance has left to stay upright on his own two feet, but even that proves too much and he slumps against his door frame before long, tired bones begging to fall back under his covers; his voice comes out slurred, clouded over and weighed down by the burden of his exhaustion, “Keith? What’s wrong?”

There's a reticent determination, fierce, almost frenzied, far too alert for prowling the corridors in the middle of the sleep cycle, masked behind the bags under Keith’s eyes, but his leg is jumping so badly it betrays his flight instincts trying to strong-arm him back to the safety of his own room. Lance would almost call Keith’s messy bed-head cute, except Keith’s doing that thing where he takes a breath and opens his mouth, only to snap it shut a distinct ‘click’ a moment later; there’s more anxiety built up that Keith’s willing to admit out loud. Lance knows that feeling, when things pile up to the point where even your own voice betrays you, so he offers Keith a simple out, “Bad dream?”

After a heavy sigh, Keith opens his mouth, backtracks, and nods. 

“Don’t want to sleep alone?” Lance shifts to the side, leaving an open door as invitation that Keith accepts without a word. It’s only after Lance’s door slides shut that Keith seems to find his voice again. 

“You’re not weirded out by this?” Keith, who despite the wavering uncertainty in his question, has already claimed a spot on Lance’s cot.

“What? Sleepovers? Nah. Pidge and I do this all the time. Now scooch,” There’s a stutter in Lance’s movements when he thwacks Keith’s legs as he scrambles over him, trying to pass off the wobble in his voice as a cough; Keith, though rumpled and amusingly bedraggled, is not the first person to share Lance’s bed, so it shouldn’t be that a big deal. Lance has someone as attractive and twice as infuriating as Keith in his bed twice a week (that’s a bold faced lie. Everyone seems to think that Lance is some big-shot lover-boy, but really, he’s only ever had 3 other people in his bed and 2 of them were Hunk and Pidge in the strictest, most platonic of ways. The other was a girl from the Garrison who could somehow never look half as good wearing nothing but Lance’s oversized shirt as Keith does right now. Still, Lance hates to disappoint, and there’s worse things to be called than a flirt). “Wall side’s mine.”

“You and Pidge?”

“Hmm? Yeah.” Keep your head on straight, McClain. Don’t do anything stupid, like get close enough to enjoy Keith’s warmth. Or even worse, get used to it. Keep talking. Don’t think about it. “We call it the Plance Rule: no one sleeps alone if they don’t want to.”

Keith snickers. “Plance is a stupid name.”

Lance shoves Keith’s arm but only succeeds in pushing himself further into the wall. “Excuse you, it is not! Plance is a hella power couple name for the two smartest people on the ship!”

Keith snorts, “You can’t just stick someone else’s letter in front of your name and call it a “power couple” name. That’s not how it works,” and Lance shoves him again. It’s only when Keith elbows back that the wrestling match starts. It’s more tired pinching and sluggish pushing than anything, there’s only so much that the ache in his bones would truly allow, but they’re both laughing before long, breathless and winded before they settle the score a tie.

Lance sticks his tongue out in indignation. “No one asked you anyway. Pidge likes it.”

“Yeah, that’s because her letter comes first.”

“Oh yeah, smart guy? Then what would you name the slickest power couple on the ship, huh?”

Keith taps his chin, pretends to think long and hard for a moment before he turns with a wicked smile. “Kidge.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. That would have to be. . .” Hold up. Wait a second. Processing. . . processing. . . “You little bastard!” Lance shoves his pillow in Keith’s smirking face. “You’re going to pay for that!” But Lance is laughing too hard to have the vigor required to keep the pillow down and fight off Keith’s resistance at the same time; Lance has never won a one-on-one against Keith, so it’s not so much the shock that has Lance squawking at the abruptness of his back hitting the mattress when Keith manages to turn the tables and steal the pillow from Lance’s grasp to retaliate in similar fashion, but more miffed indignation and outright annoyance. 

Lance is fighting blind. Keith has him right where he wants him, not only pinning Lance to the bed with his full weight over Lance’s hips, but trapping Lance’s arms to his side with his knees too so he can use both hands to shove two pillows in Lance’s face. Lance is willing all his combat training to the surface, trying to regain some control in this, but all he can do is grasp at the sheets to find purchase on something, anything, that would help turn the tide of the battle; he’s coming up empty.

“Say ‘uncle’,” is the demand that breaks through all the hushed laughter.

Lance gasps around the pillows; they muffle his defiant “Never!”

Keith bears down a little harder, knocks his knees in a little tighter until Lance vying to get his hands free hurts his wrists, “Say uncle!”

Between the pillows in his face and the weight constricting his chest, it’s getting hard to breathe; his bones ache and pop in strange places as they strain. Yeah, ok, maybe it’s time to give up the ghost. “Uncle! Uncle!”

Lance has every intention of betraying his plea for surrender as soon as Keith lets up, even though his muscles resist the urge to revolt; Keith must sense the insurrection in the air because he rears up in that moment, pillows at the ready, but his attention latches onto something above Lance’s head before he can stamp out the rebellion: it’s the pinpoints of muted light Lance has painted on the ceiling of his bunk. 

Keith reaches up, swipes a gentle finger over one of the shapes, “What’s this?”

“They’re stars,” Lance explains as he props himself up on an elbow, reaching out with his other newly-freed arm to trace one of the patterns. “It’s a rough map of all the constellations that you can see from Varadero Beach at the end of July.”

“Oh,” Keith’s voice borders the threshold of perplexed, like he wasn’t expecting such a simple answer. “Why are they here?”

“Promise not to laugh if I tell you?”

“Why would I laugh?”

“It’s childish,” Lance admits. “Everyone else acts like they’re handling being so far out in space so well, and here I am, painting stars on my ceiling so I can stare at them and pretend that I’m back on Earth, laying on the sand on one of our family camping trips during summer break because I’m so homesick I wanna scream.” Keith doesn’t laugh, but his expression does morph into something that’s a notch or two away from pity, and that’s almost worse. “I know it’s kind of pathetic, but it helps make the awful days out here more bearable.”

Quiet hangs heavy in the dark. Lance feels exposed after that confession; talking about home to any extent still hits a raw nerve, and for someone in his position, Defender of the Universe, legendary pilot of Voltron, the absolute last line between ubiquitous peace or destruction, to admit to such a trivial weakness. . . well, it’s not hard to see why he’s the weakest link on the team. He doesn’t like to dwell on it too long or he might be prone to doing something stupid, so it’s a good thing that Lance is the King of Denial; he has a plethora of practice forcing himself to focus on anything but that guilt-ridden knot in his gut. Except there’s not much else to focus on in the dark other than the fact that Keith’s made no real attempt to move from his spot on Lance’s lap and how Lance can only just make out the thin strip of mid-section bared by Keith’s shirt as it rides up. It’s a pretty picture; Lance is surprised by how much he wants to bite at the exposed skin, to see if it would bruise. For science.

Before Lance can think too much about it and implode, Keith murmurs, “It’s nice.”

Lance peeks up. “It is?”

“Yeah.” Keith runs his fingers over the stars again before he settles into a sitting position on the mattress; he doesn’t take his eyes off them when he speaks again. “Missing home isn’t childish. It just means you’re human,” Keith’s mouth lilts up in a knowing smile, and Lance can’t help but chuckle at his bad joke. “And trust me, the others miss Earth just as bad as you do. They just have different ways of handling it.”

“‘The others’? What about you?” Lance sits a little straighter, but Keith’s eyes are still skipping over the dots of paint like he’s trying to read a map. “Don’t you miss home?”

“Not really, no,” is the answer that comes quietly; there’s no inflection to it, no tell to help make reading Keith’s solemn expression any easier.

Lance can’t stop the way his eyebrows shoot upward, “How come?”

“There’s nothing for me to go back to,” Keith says with a shrug; he only meets Lance’s gaze for a tick before it bounds back to the stars. “I bounced around a lot after Dad died. None of the foster families could handle me. Said I was ‘troubled’. And if I got into a fight at school, they’d just ship me off to the next family three states away.” Keith’s tone is casual, easy, like he’s just shooting the breeze and not recounting how he lived his early years as an orphan; it leaves Lance dumbfounded with a sense of shame, and ah, there’s that weird phenomena again where his well of words dries up. “Hell, the only person I really consider family is sleeping down the hall.” Keith taps an empty spot on the ceiling distractedly, “You’re missing one in Leo’s neck here.”

Lance opens his mouth to apologize, for what, he’s not quite sure, but he’s certain he’s overstepped somehow, but Keith continues. “I think it’s nice that you have something you miss that much. It’ll give you something to live for that isn’t this war.” Keith turns to Lance with a small smile, and maybe it’s because his stars don’t provide that much light, but Lance isn’t sure if it reaches his eyes. “I haven’t planned that far ahead. I don’t really know how. I don’t see how we’re supposed to stop a 10,000 year old war with just the five of us in one lifetime. Not that I don’t think we could, but I know that the odds have been stacked against us from the start. I guess I always thought of it more as an “if we win” situation. So I just keep moving forward, and if one day we do win this fight, maybe then I’ll be able to figure out what it is I’m supposed to do.” There’s an uneasy wobble in his voice, and he stops twice to swallow, loud enough for Lance to hear.

“When we win this war,” Lance can’t do much more than give Keith’s knee a gentle squeeze and hope that it’s enough of a comfort to help pull him out of this melancholy, “I’m taking you home to Cuba, and my family will smother you and feed you arroz con habichuelas until you’re stuffed stupid, and then we’ll all go camping, and my siblings will get sand in your hair and we’ll make smores and count the stars on the beach.”

Keith smiles. Lance can see the edges falter, even in the darkness, but there’s a sincerity behind it. “That’d be nice.”

There’s a comfortable, steady calm when they settle back under the covers. It’s a bit of an awkward fit: Lance is all legs and Keith doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of ‘his half’ of the bunk; there’s small spots of fleeting contact, their hands, their arms, their legs, little touches caused just by breathing, that sends sparks charging under the surface of Lance’s skin. It’s a curious thing, not enough and too much all at the same time. He considers moving away, but squashes the thought in the same breath. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this close to anyone. It’s nice. He wants to enjoy the proximity, the way the flicker of static across his skin makes his chest feel full. 

He kinda wants to act on it.

There’s a million and one reasons why he doesn’t though. Lance has made a lot of mistakes in the past, and it wouldn’t take a catastrophe to ruin this new, fragile friendship he’s forged. It’s taken being launched into space, forced onto the same team, and accidentally uncovering Keith’s biggest, most guarded secret that finally gained him Keith’s trust; Lance isn’t willing to throw that away for something that he doesn’t entirely understand yet. Hell, he doesn’t even know if Keith likes girls or guys or anything at all, much less Lance. So he leaves it be, tucks it away for further exploration when he has some real quiet time. Right now, it’s just really nice to not have to sleep alone.

The low grumble that rips through the stillness has Lance bolting upright in bed, half expecting the harsh red of the emergency lights to flood his room and the command, “Paladins, to your lions!” to order them out of bed . But it never comes. The room stays dark, and the only ringing in his ears is from the rush of his own pulse. Next to him, Keith rolls over, turns his back to Lance, tucks himself deeper under the covers, but the thin blanket can’t hide how tense his shoulders are. 

“Was that you?” Lance is breathless, jittery from adrenaline as he reaches out; Keith flinches under his touch, but doesn’t make a move to turn to face him. 

“Uh, yeah. My bad.” Keith’s voice is muffled by the pillow he’s currently trying to bury his face into.

“Do you want help?” 

“It’s fine.” A hard-edged promise. “I’ve been worse off before. I’ll go talk to Shiro in the morning. I’m fine, I swear. I really don’t want to move right now.”

It’s not the best case Keith has ever pleaded, and Lance isn’t convinced in the slightest, but who is he to tell Keith his own limits? Lance resigns with a quiet “Alright,” and lays back under the covers.

He’s asleep in minutes.

+-----------------------------------------------------+

Lance crashes into reality full force. 

It’s a grating transition, being flung from under the brilliant sun in Cuba to the outright blackness of his room; he hasn’t grasped a foothold in the waking world when his head meets the wall hard enough for the ground to corkscrew under him. There’s a figure above him, silhouetted in the dark and blurred by the pain in his head, moving over him. Lance careens forward, full of adrenaline and not ready to die, not tonight, tries to get his hands around this stranger’s throat, but he’s pinned to the spot, hands ensnared above his head by a frigid vice.

The more Lance resists, the more his vision spins, the more the restraint around his wrists tightens, until it’s agonizing, until his bones feel like they may snap. He can’t catch his breath, there’s too much panic in his system and a solid pressure planted over his sternum that doesn’t let his lungs expand. He wants to scream, but nothing but a few throaty wheezes can spill past his heart in his throat.

The feral growl rumbling in his ear shocks ice through his veins, freezes up every muscle and flushes all the fight straight out of Lance. His assailant yanks his hands higher and rears up; something pops in Lance’s shoulder, there’s the vague sensation of pain there, but it’s so distant in the moment, so displaced from the ice freezing his nerves over, that he doesn’t really even hear it.

Yellow eyes, hollow, glowing, hungry, come into focus above him. 

“Keith?” It must be Lance’s voice, breathless and raspy, that he can hear, but he can’t feel the words coming out.

Keith doesn’t reply. He keeps his yellow eyes trained on Lance (there’s a teeny, tiny voice in the way, way back of Lance’s consciousness that’s screaming at him to look away, look away! Don’t be the mouse in a trap! But he’s already been caught. Guess this really is how it ends, not with Zarkon, but during the witching hour spell-bound by the gravity of those eyes), haltingly pushes the hand from his ribcage up, up, up, ready to quell any defiance if it arises, over the bare skin of his throat, to latch his fingers over the shape of Lance’s jaw hard enough to bruise.

It’s when Keith wrenches Lance’s head up that something snaps. There’s a burning frenzy stampeding, and Lance is begging, pleading nonsense to the air as he kicks and bucks and tries to scrabble for anything to hold onto. There is nothing, and it’s that hopelessness that adds another level to the frantic dread to his losing battle; something else pops, but Lance can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears.

“Keith!” He can’t breathe; his lungs are trying to gulp down air that simply isn’t there.

“Keith!” There’s another low growl, hushed and horrible; it fans the flames of hysteria higher, hotter, makes Keith’s cold fingers smolder around his jaw and wrists.

“Kei-- ah!” Keith’s hand around his jaw tightens again as warm breath slides over his throat, drags a warm, wet tongue up the length of his jugular.

Everything is swimming above him. It hurts too much to keep fighting. He can’t feel anything anymore. He’s numb.

Ketih is going to bite him.

He’s never been so scared.

“Please,” is the last thing he can manage.

And then Keith and his grasping hands are gone. Lance is left gasping in his bed alone, an ache in his jaw and no feeling in his right arm, but there’s no blood on the shaking fingers he wipes across his neck.

It’s a bumbling effort to sit up in bed without use of his arm but there’s still enough left over adrenalin left to pull himself up before too long.

There are yellow eyes in the corner of his room, huddled on the floor in the far corner. They’re dim now, and even in the dark, Lance can see the fear and dismay in them. There’s something primal, something Lance has no control over, in Lance that shoves him into the corner of his own bed, scrabbling as far back as he can. 

“Lance?” comes the quiet voice from the far side of the room. Lance can see the figure of Keith moving in the darkness, and that small motion is enough to send him even further into the corner. Keith stops dead, and there’s a terrible quiet as they stare at each other, too scared to speak, to move, to do anything but watch each other and sit in the charged air and shake. 

Keith’s yellow eyes dim until Lance can no longer see them from his spot on his bed, but he does see the light from the hallways filter in as his door slides open and shut and the shadow darts down the hallway.


End file.
